Wicked Intentions
by blodreina
Summary: "I've never seen a portrait of the queen. I've only heard tales of her raven-haired beauty, and how she bewitches the hearts of men. I can see you clearly now - Mary, Queen of Scots. And I am not bewitched."


**Wicked Intentions**

Mary could feel herself growing colder by the moment. It was a sensation she was familiar with, but it felt as if it was spreading more quickly since the moment she awoke on the shore in Scotland among the wreckage and the dead.

She would once have struggled with her conscience for deceiving someone the way that she was Munroe. She would have had an even harder time with the knowledge that she intended to kill him. Once, she would have felt guilty for such a thing even knowing that she was justified.

But her inner darkness had grown tenfold since she had first come back to French court a naïve, foolish young girl with dreams of love and a golden era in which all flourished under the fair and just rule of Mary and her soon-to-be husband. Indeed, her inner darkness was so strong that she hardly recognized herself at all for the girl she had once been.

She had followed Munroe back to his chambers as he said and was looking over the jewelry he had collected from the wreckage of her ship. He thought that she was just looking for a pretty piece to wear, a gift, but she was looking for something sharp. Something that she could use to wound him. She eventually settled on a bejeweled necklace with four sharp edges, bringing it over to him.

"This necklace is rather grand," she said.

"Let's see how it looks on you," the man said, smiling. Mary turned and moved her hair aside so that he could fasten it around her neck, her mouth setting in a hard line at the feeling of his hands on her. This was the man who was responsible for the death of her husband, for all her suffering.

After he had fastened it, he placed his hands on her shoulders, drawing her up against him, and she held back a shudder, glaring at nothing in particular. She did not return his touch. While she knew that she should to go along with the façade, she couldn't bring herself to do it.

"I'm sorry, I'm just a little nervous," she said stiffly, chiding herself for the bad acting.

"Do not be afraid," he hummed, his lips against her neck now. "Even a warrior's touch can be gentle."

She clenched her jaw and forced herself to remain still, knowing that if she moved and he looked at her, he would could tell by just a glance at her expression that something was terribly off. Finally he let go of her and she drew a deep breath, drawing away and gesturing toward a sword that was sitting in one of the chests.

"I doubt that wool merchant has ever held a sword in his hand," she said softly, her eyes downward. Here was her opportunity. If she could just get the sword in her hands... "Nor have I, for that matter."

"The short sword." Munroe lifted a brow. "Do you like it?"

"Will you teach me how to use it?" she asked, trying to look and sound demure, innocent. He laughed and she relaxed as he strode over to the chest, lifting the sword out and bringing it back to her.

"Look at that, it has a Latin inscription," he said, turning it over to show her. "The bastard tongue of our oppressors, the Catholic church. Did they teach you Latin back in France?"

Mary smiled sweetly up at him. "I never bothered to learn. My brother and I are Protestant, like you."

"Latin has become unpopular here in Scotland, especially amongst the clans. I doubt anyone here could translate this for us, except me." He was rambling and Mary tuned him out, focusing on the sword itself - she recognized it now. This was _her_ sword, the one Francis had made for her. How fitting that she would use it to avenge his death.

"My queen, my light, my love," he said, catching her attention once more, and she forced another smile for him. "This sword belonged to a queen."

"It must be quite valuable then."

"It was found on the wreckage of your ship," he said, and her blood ran cold. _Did he know?_ "The same ship that carried hundreds of mercenaries from France. It is not unusual for France to send soldiers to fight on our shores, to send gold and jewels to support the Catholic cause, but if the sword belonged to a queen... then perhaps they were carrying a cargo far more precious than gold." He took a step closer to her, and she stood her ground. "A Scottish queen raised in France and making her journey home."

Staring up at him, Mary gave it one last try, stuttering slightly. She wanted more information out of him before she killed him. "I - I didn't see any queen on the ship. My brother told me to stay in our cabin for my safety."

"I've never seen a portrait of the queen," Munroe said. "I've only heard tales of her raven-haired beauty, and how she bewitches the hearts of men."

Mary gave up the facade and drew herself up to her full height, meeting his gaze steadily and pressing her lips together. This was it, then.

"I can see you clearly now - Mary, Queen of Scots. And I am not bewitched."


End file.
